The Burned Man Rises
by powderganger
Summary: The Courier has been to Zion and back and after bringing about peace for the people of the valley, has reawoken the Burned Man from his solitude. Graham returns to the Mojave with Follows-Chalk in tow with plans of saving the Mojave from the battle for Hoover Dam, but can he hope to stand in the way of the Bull & the Bear? Please review & tell me what you think!
1. Chapter One

_I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.__** - **_**[Book of Revelation]**

_They still speak of you, you know_. The Courier had said upon his departure from the orange lands of Zion. _The Slaves still speak of the Burned Man who walked away from the canyon. The Legion haven't acknowledged you live on, beyond the slave stories._

Joshua Graham had smiled at that. Their refusal to acknowledge that he breathed had been admittance enough; defeat enough. He had attempted to restrain himself with the thought that every breath he took was a piece of revenge, a metaphorical fuck you to Edward. But with the Courier's arrival and departure to and from Zion, he had felt the stirrings of his old, proud nature, the parts of himself he had thought the Lord had purged.

_And of you, Courier? Will you spread the rumours amongst the Legion men?_

The Courier had smiled at that, the grin touching the parts of his face which were not concealed by the goggles he wore and the low brim of his hat. It seemed, like Graham, he too felt the need to conceal his face.

_No, _he'd said, _the battle for Hoover Dam draws nigh and I have a part to play. I would not disturb the men on the eve of victory with stories of burned-out ghosts._

Graham had laid his hand on the man's shoulder at that, and bid him farewell. The Courier hadn't meant to offend him with his words, and his frankness reminded Joshua of himself before the flames, before the second baptism. Before the fire.

_Before the salvation_, he reminded himself, _you are purged. Clean. To return to the Mojave would be to return to dust and dirt; to sully the cleansing the Lord has given you. Your work is in saving Zion._

He turned over the Legion Aureus coin which had slipped from the Courier's pockets over in his bandaged grasp. The gold glinted in the harsh Zion sunlight, catching the eye of a green gecko down on the shoreline. Graham, however, was well out of its reach, perched upon a red ledge which jutted out of a canyon wall; safe in his solitude.

"_Aeternit Imperi_," he murmured, reading the inscription upon the coin, _"Pax Per Bellum." _For the eternity of the empire, peace through war. The old language didn't suit the harsh brightness of Zion and Graham regretted speaking it out loud, as though he had offended the area by mentioning what he had come from. _The area. _Was it wrong that he still thought of it as that, and not as home?

"Lord," he said, "My work is done in Zion; the White Legs have been crushed into the red dirt so the Sorrows and the Dead Horses may find their peace unhindered. With the arrival of the Courier, the war was brought so soon to an end. I fear its consequences may distress Daniel more than I had originally thought. He does not see, as I do."

The sun winked down at Graham, harsh and bright. It caught the coin again, a flash of gold against the azure of the sky, dragging his gaze back to it. Edward sneered up at him from the coin, his gilded expression one of triumph, as though he had already won the war. Which he _hadn't_ and _wouldn't _until he took the Dam. Hoover Dam was a symbol and had been of his defeat last time. But this time, the Courier had seemed sure.

With a noise of anger, Graham threw the coin away, casting it down into the clean waters below and sending the gecko scurrying in shock. It gave him small satisfaction to see the glinting face of his old friend fall down beneath the water, the glint extinguishing as it was buried into the river's silt. No more.

"The Legion buried beneath the muck of the dam," Graham said softly, playing with his gun, "Their ideals lost as mine were, so they may be reborn. That would be a new way for the Mojave."

_A better way_, he thought, sending a rock skittering down as he stood, realisation seizing him. "I see. The Courier was sent with a message unbeknownst to him; you sent him to tell me my next great work. Now Zion is saved, I must return and save that which I started. I will walk free of the slave's stories and cast my long shadow across the Mojave again; it is time your Grace found the sordid world of New Vegas."

The dawn sky over Zion was already overcast when Graham turned his eyes to look upon the landscape for the last time. The thick grey clouds heralded rain and drizzle, something which Graham had grown accustomed to in the area. It had shocked the Courier, the first time he had seen the skies split and the water descend. Graham had told him that God was washing his hands.

_The people of Zion are blessed with daily baptisms_, he'd said, _the Lord keeps our spirits clean, something which cannot be said for your people of the Mojave._

"You leave us?" Follows-Chalk appeared from the green brush, his expression almost hurt as he sprung from Zion's undergrowth. Graham hadn't heard him approaching. "Where do you go to? We need your guidance, Joshua!"

"My work for Zion has come to its end," Graham replied, his voice rough and deep, "The Lord has called me to my final task, which will change the land of the Mojave."

"Are you going to see the Dam?" the youth was surprisingly perceptive; "The Courier said it was as big as mountains! I can see why the people would fight over something like that."

_No you cannot_, Joshua thought, but instead intoned. "Yes. My work will involve the Dam."

Follows-Chalk thought for a moment, leaning on a throwing spear. "I will come with you," he said.

"No," Graham said, "You must remain with your tribe. It will need guidance now more than ever with the falling of the White Legs."

"And I am not the one to give it!" Follows-Chalk had begun to sound angry, "Daniel will show the Sorrows and the Dead Horses the right way, I am sure!" He threw down his spear, "I am sick of being Follows-Chalk! I do not want to follow chalk; I want to draw the chalk myself! I want to find the way instead of follow it! I want to follow you into the Courier's world of lights and singers and deathpaws! I want to see New Vegas!"

"Deathclaws are not something you wish to see," Graham said quietly, "The Mojave is not for you."

"Zion is not for me!" Follows-Chalk exclaimed, "There is nothing for me here if you leave this valley. If you do not allow me to travel with you, I will make my own journey. Although I do not know the way," he finished quietly.

Graham surveyed him sadly, his eyes glinting through the slit in the bandages. It occurred to Follows-Chalk that although he must be growing old, he did not look wearied by the world yet. Not like Daniel. Daniel had been disappointed by the way Graham and Courier had handled the White-Legs and Salt-upon-Wounds, Follows-Chalk could tell.

He waited for Graham's response.

"You may come," he said finally, "You will have to carry my pack and do not act the tribal for the folk of the Mojave." He dropped a heap of material on the floor at Follows-Chalk's feet, "The Courier left these behind when his pack grew too heavy. You will wear them and tell people you are out of the Utah."

"Thank you Joshua Graham!" Follows-Chalk was ecstatic and he shed his tribal gear immediately, casting his headdress to the floor and beginning to pull on the pre-war outfit the Courier had left behind. The jeans were cold against his skin, and he struggled with the metal buttons; something he had never had to tangle with before.

Graham turned away from his new follower and let his eyes rest out over the day breaking over Zion Nation Park. The water, the rock, the canyon; it was all converted to the Burned Man's memory as he turned away, ending his time in Zion in exchange for the Mojave's dust.

New Vegas waited.


	2. Chapter Two

_16: Repent; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will fight against them with the sword of my mouth._** [Book of Revelation]**

* * *

The journey from Cottonwood Cove to the Fort was always a restful one, the Courier had always thought. He often slept on the barge, making a pillow from his Merc Adventurer jacket as a legionary looked upon him with barely concealed contempt. Not that the Courier cared for the opinion of such a low-ranking official; not when the barge offered him the best rest he ever got in the Mojave. He'd slept in the Ultra Luxe on the New Vegas strip, pre-war beds in Vaults underground and had rested his head back in the coloured dirt of the Mojave more times than he could count, but the rocking motion of the barge as it moved up river and the soft mutter of the water as it slid past always gave him the better sleep than anywhere else in New Vegas. Or, out of it, as the bedrolls in Zion hadn't been much of an improvement.

_Don't think about Zion_, the Courier was irritated he'd even drudged up the memory. _Zion is not your business. The Dam is your business; the Legion is your business. The Burned Man can go hang for all the good it'll do._

As soon as he'd seen the Burned Man walk out of the stories and into the harsh Zion sunlight, he had already decided not tell Caesar that the Malpais Legate lived on. Joshua Graham was no threat where he sat and anyway, it was likely Caesar was well aware of the fact that he lived. Graham had killed enough of the Legion sent after him by the man to justify that.

The barge ground to a halt at Fortification Hill and the Courier cursed inwardly that he'd frittered away his prime sleep-time with thoughts of Zion and the Burned Man. He was _immaterial_; it didn't matter if he still breathed or not! Anything outside the Mojave wasn't worth contemplating, particularly ghosts like Joshua.

"Ave," the main gate guard said. The Courier ignored him; there had been a time when he had had to relinquish his weapons to the man as a visitor to the Fort, but no longer. The Courier didn't like to think of himself as Legion, merely as a supporter of the cause but the truth was he was recognised as part of it now by the NCR and Caesar combined. He knew if he had been Legion officially he would have reached the rank of Legate long ago, the assassination of the degenerates' President Kimball would have confirmed that.

_Degenerates; _he was even starting to think like them. The thought shook him; it was a realisation which had been growing larger and larger in his mind ever since he had returned.

"Ave," a Praetorian guard offered has he passed him on the way into Caesar's tent. He was ignored.

"Ave," Caesar raised his head at the arrival, a white scar courtesy of the Courier glinting on the apex of his forehead. It was all that remained of the great tumour which had been slowly destroying the great leader. "You have been outside my knowledge for some time, Courier. My explorers tell me they saw you leaving the Mojave; Lucius here feared your desertion."

_Of course he did, the rat_, the Courier thought. His face was impassive though, and he was grateful as ever that most of it was obscured by the goggles he wore.

He had first begun to wear them as habit due to the amount of explosive work he had pursued, but now they were simply another barrier between him and the world. It helped him remain impassive and logical; a spectator to the game.

"A deserter does not return," he said quietly. When he spoke, his voice was always low and quite; from disuse, most likely. He did not like to bring himself to crack his lips apart to speak unless necessary.

"A good point," Caesar said, "What was it you spent your time doing outside our cause? Where did you go to?"

_Not that it's any of your business. _The Courier thought, irritated, _I am not Legion, I do you favours for your cause. There is a difference; I am not one of your mongrels._

"I assisted a caravan," he replied, "Crossing into Utah."

"A caravan?" Lucius frowned, "What would be the purpose of that?"

The Courier noticed Caesar was paying him some attention and replied; "I've never been to Utah."

"The Mojave not interesting enough for you, Courier?" Lucius snickered.

"Just because you are chained to the Fort and Caesar's throne does not mean there are not others who have interest in walking the map," the Courier said quietly.

Lucius looked furious, but Caesar burst into a bark of laughter before the Praetorian Guard could rebuke and the Courier allowed himself a wan smile. _Fuck you Lucius_, _fuck you._

"It's good that you happened by," Caesar said as the smile wore from his face, "The assault on the Dam is three weeks away and Vulpes tells me there have been stirrings about Vegas about organising a resistance when Hoover Dam is Legion, especially about Freeside. I want you to find out who the leaders are and if it's those damn Kings, get ready to wipe them out. Don't kill anyone yet, there's no point in starting a civil war before we even arrive."

"It's probably the Followers of the Apocalypse," Lucius commented, "I hear Julie Farkas has been planting ideas in Freeside citizen's heads."

"You know fuck all Lucius so I suggest you don't go running your mouth," Caesar snapped aggressively, making the Guard's face flash red. Lucius muttered an inaudible response before storming into the back room, where the Courier could make out a scowl etched into the man's face. A similar expression was mirrored upon Caesar's: his friend had put him in a bad mood.

"Do you have any questions?" Caesar snapped.

"No," the Courier said.

"Go on then," Caesar said, turning away, "Vale."

The Courier turned away without another word, purpose in his step and his role upon his mind. He was grateful his work would take him to Freeside; he enjoyed the area and speaking with Arcade Gannon at the Old Mormon Fort. Perhaps if things had been different, he would have joined their cause and put his medical knowledge to better use.

_No, no you wouldn't. That would never happen_, he thought, angry for romanticising his nature. He wasn't like them. But then, nor was he like Caesar.

"Some of the slaves have been spreading stories about the Burned Man again," a legionary muttered as the Courier passed. The Courier turned to face the man, anger flashing behind the goggles.

"Never raise your voice to speak of that man. If you do so again," he said softly, "I will destroy you."

The Courier left the camp.


	3. Chapter Three

_12 One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter. _**[Book of Revelation]**

* * *

Follows-Chalk almost tripped over his bootlaces for the third time as they became entangled in a roll of barbed wire. He hadn't know how to tie them properly and Graham had refused to stoop to lacing up his follower's shoes, so the youth had been forced to leave them trailing behind. He had wanted to kick off the boots and go without, but Graham had said that would draw attention, and in the Mojave people always wore shoes. Joshua Graham knew a lot about the ordinary folk of the Mojave.

Follows-Chalk pulled at the shirt as it began to stick to the back of his neck. The clothes didn't suit the tribal; a rough maroon chequered shirt and dark blue jeans, with big dark brown boots which went further than his ankles. Joshua had described the outfit as 'the clothes of a hick'; something which the youth didn't altogether understand. They covered his tribal tattoos well though, and Graham had instructed the boy to take the hat and scarf of a passer-by when they ventured closer to Westside and to use the scarf to cover most of his face and the hat to shade his eyes.

Face tattoos were not common, even around New Vegas.

Joshua had also told Follows-Chalk to not call him by his name, but to call him David.

"You will be Adam," he said, "Do not speak where it can be avoided, for your accent will show you as a tribal. Tell no one you are from Zion and do not mention my name."

They'd come to stop outside a hut, just on the edge of Freeside. Follows-Chalk was one of the few of his tribe with the knowledge of words, which had been given to him by Joshua and he strained as he read the sign above.

"G-un Runners," he said finally.

"I must speak with Isaac," Graham replied, "You will enter Freeside without me. Enter by the North Gate and make your way to the Old Mormon Fort. Ask if you cannot find it."

Follows-Chalk tried not to be daunted by being split up in the foreign land so early; "What will you do?"

"My work begins here," Graham said, somewhat stonily, "Do not make me regret your company Adam. Ask for Julia Farkas and ask for stimpaks and news. If they give you none, meet me outside the Fort at twenty-one hours."

"Who is she?"

"She is a woman of medicine," he said, and then frowned. "Hold out your hand, Adam."

Follows-Chalk did so, holding out his right and Graham asked; "You use your left-hand?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good," he shot Follows-Chalk through the palm, his eyes unreadable as the boy screamed in distress. "They will see you now." Graham leant across and knocked his hat down so it shaded more of his face. "Go."

Follows-Chalk just managed to stop a sob escaping from between his lips as he stumbled away from the shack, hugging his wound to his chest. He'd been shot before, of course, it had taken a while for the youngest of his tribe to understand guns and he himself had been a klutz with the first .45 Graham had let him use, but it was more the shock of the wound than the pain it caused him that caused his eyes to shine with unshed tears. Graham had _shot _him; he hadn't even asked or warned, he had simply just _shot _him.

"Joshua is wise," he muttered through the material of scarf as he pushed the North Gate open, "Joshua has done this for his-work. You asked to-come."

He forced himself to get a handle on the pain, reminding himself he'd survived run-ins with Yao Guai and had helped eradicate the White Legs from the valley. He was _strong. _He was _tough. _He was-

"Hey buddy. You new around here?" Follows-Chalk turned to see three burly looking men standing side by side on the pavement next to the Gate. One of them was wearing thick, wasteland armour and another was wearing a black leather jacket, his hair in a strange style Follows-Chalk had never seen before.

The one in the leather jacket spoke again; "Freeside is Kings' turf. You want to get through Freeside alive, hire a King bodyguard."

"Why would I do that?" Follows-Chalk asked, confused, "Are there White Legs here to attack me?"

"White-" the King's member frowned, "You won't get through the streets alive without a bodyguard. Freeside's full of scum who'll rough you up or stab you up. I seen too many tourists running through here on the way to New Vegas," he dragged a small smoking stick through his lips, the red tip glowing as Follows-Chalk watched, fascinated. "They say hey, I don't need a bodyguard. Then," he laughed, exhaling a stream of smoke, "Freeside stops 'em from running. Tell you what, for you, two hundred caps and you can cruise through sweet on the way to New Vegas."

"No thank you," Follows-Chalk said, remembering caps as a system of money Joshua had explained to him on the way. It was something they hadn't had much need for in Zion, although he knew Joshua had a bag full of them and sometimes they'd jingle as he walked through the camp. "Thank you for your offer though. Do you know where the Old Mormon Fort is?"

The King sighed, flicking the stump of his cigarette to the floor. "Jus' there," he said, pointing to a huge greyish brick structure a little down the road which Follows-Chalk was standing on. "You lookin' for the Followers?"

"Julie Farkas," Follows-Chalk said promptly.

"Yeah, she's a Follower. She'll fix you up." He nodded at Follows-Chalk's bloody hand.

"Thank you for your kindness," Follows-Chalk said.

"Hey, good luck buddy."

Follows-Chalk moved away from the King, his eyes growing as wide as saucers as he took in the world of Freeside around him. For a boy who had been almost raised a world of red rock and canvas tents, the rubble-strewn city was an incredibly sophisticated world of brick-buildings, torn roads and well-dressed people. _People_. He had never seen so many looking so different from one another! In Zion, even opposite tribes looked largely similar but here the people seemed louder, happier, drunker. They seemed to shout out their feelings to whoever passed by, emotive and noisy, incredibly confident about themselves.

Children chased a giant rat down the street, shooting off laser pistols at the creature's head, shouting out to one another; "Get it! Get it, Buster!"

Fire licked up the side of a bin and as Follows-Chalk watched, a vagrant stood to warm him hands about it, laughing at something a child said before his humour descended into a wracking cough. It all seemed very… _civilised_.

The wooden gates at the Old Mormon Fort stood before him, intimidating and unyielding. Should he knock? No, knocking is what Follows-Chalk would have done in Zion. Here, in Freeside, he was Adam. He pushed the gates open, using his uninjured hand.


	4. Chapter Four

_13 And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the three angels, which are yet to sound!_ **[Book of Revelation]**

* * *

A ghoul, rotted and hideous in a cowboy hat, looked up as Follows-Chalk entered. Her face was marred, pieces of her skin missing and her appearance was similar to the hide of a rotted Brahmin corpse he had once seen down by the river. It was like the pelt of a Yao Guai, but without the fur and would have shocked Follows-Chalk completely if ghouls hadn't been described to him many times before.

"Howdy," she said, "You need the help of the Followers?"

_Don't stare at the lady_, he thought to himself as he raised his injured hand, which let a drop of red blood splash to the floor, followed by another. "I would like to speak with Julie Farkas."

The ghoul whistled.

"Gee whiz kid, how'd you mess up your hand like that?" she put her hands up, "Forget I asked. I'm a regular nose, not something that's so popular with the good folk of Freeside." She laughed; an unpleasant sound. Her voice sounded as though the radiation had eaten into her vocal cords as well: it was rough and grating. She gestured with her gun, which glinted in the sunlight. It looked new.

"C'mon, I'll find you a doc to fix you up," she said, "Give my legs a stretch to get out of this seat. Name's Beatrix by the way. I know right, a nice-sounding name for a bumpy looking gal like me." She laughed, "Don't know why a ghoul'd pick a name worse than his face, it's not like we haven't got enough going against us already. I ought to take it up with Rotface some time."

"Rotface?" Follows-Chalk asked, "What is a rotface?" he wondered if it was a special type of ghoul. He had heard there were ones which glowed like fire flies and exploded into showers of light if you shot them. Perhaps they were rotfaces.

"You're really not a local, are you?" she chuckled, "Rotface is a ghoul about town, he'll tell you things about the place if you throw him a few caps. Then there's Grecks, he's not such a good time guy either. Guess not every person can be such a fun-lover like me!" her smile opened up the scars in her face.

The ghoul stopped at a woman in a white coat, with kind round eyes and a mouse-coloured Mohawk. She tipped her hat to the lady. "Afternoon' Doc. Got a kid here; he says he hurt his hand." She backed away, cradling her sub-machine gun in her hands. "Go do Doc stuff, whatever you guys do."

Julie laughed. Her voice was soft and feminine; everything the opposite of the ghoul.

"Hi, I'm Julie Farkas," she said, "What appears to be the problem with your hand?"

"I have hurt it," Follows-Chalk said falteringly.

Julie took it in her soft palms and he bit his lip to keep himself from wincing; maintaining composure.

She smiled slightly; "You're a tough guy, aren't you? Ok, you appear to have caught a bullet right in your palm. Are you right-handed?"

"No."

"This shouldn't be such an issue; I'll just fix the wound up and apply a stimpak. It'll take a few weeks to heal completely, but you should be able to use that hand again in a few days." She led him towards a white canvas tent, which had a pair of bunk-beds and a table and chair inside. She pulled up one for Follows-Chalk, indicating he should sit and dropped a first-aid kit down upon the round table.

"I'm afraid we're running very low on pain killers currently, so I usually ask the patients who aren't big babies if they can go without. Is that ok?"

Follows-Chalk nodded; "Pain is not something I fear so much."

"Then you're a very brave man," Julie said with a small smile, "Ok, I'm just going to have to go into the wound with a pair of tweezers and pick out the bullet before I bandage you up, alright? Hold still, it'll be a nasty little thing to get out of you start twitching or wriggling."

Follows-Chalk nodded his understanding; the natural anaesthetic he'd been used to in Zion hadn't been much better than no anaesthetic at all and he'd picked up more injuries than most as he strayed the furthest from the camps as a training scout.

Julie Farkas began picking at the red hole, stimulating a conversation in an attempt to distract the covered youth from the pain. "So what's your name?"

"Adam."

"What a pleasant name," she said, "Where are you from, Adam? You're not from around Freeside, are you?"

"I'm," Follows-Chalk licked his lips from behind the scarf, hoping she'd think his hesitation was because of the pain. "I'm out of the Utah."

"Utah," she repeated, sounding surprised, "That's a funny distance to be travelling. You picked a bad time to come to the Mojave, anyway," she said darkly.

"Why is that?" Follows-Chalk remembered what Joshua had said; _news and stimpaks. _He could ask for the stimpaks after, the news would come first.

"Well, you've heard about the battle for Hoover Dam, I'm sure," she said, squinting as she strained to reach the round metal stone, "They – the Legion and the NCR – are going to have another round at it. The Legion has been building themselves up since the last defeat and I've heard their Legate is a monster," she frowned, "I just don't know if the NCR can hold them back this time. If the Dam falls, then I don't see what'll keep Caesar out of Vegas _and _Freeside. He'd think it's his right."

"Not spreading Legionist propaganda, are you Julie?" a blonde-haired doctor in a white coat and well-cleaned eyeglasses stepped through into the tent, "I can think of someone who would be thrilled to hear you'd swapped sides so fast."

"I'm just explaining to Adam here," with a flick of her wrist, Julie removed the bullet. "Ah! I'm just explaining to Adam here the current situation in the Mojave. He's come in from Utah."

"Well I must say his timing is impeccable," the other doctor said. He spoke very fast and Follows-Chalk struggled to keep up. "You can go on ahead, Julie, I'll finish him up."

"And there you were saying you weren't a real doctor," Julie folded her arms as she stood.

"I'm not," he said quickly, "I'm a researcher. But I think I can wrap a bandage around a gunshot wound with the best of them and," he paused, scratching the back of his neck, "There are some- more casualties which have come in."

"Oh," Julie's expression changed, "Right. I'll be right out."

"He's here. As well," the doctor made a face of a petulant child whose least favourite aunt had come to stay.

Julie nodded, another one of her wan smiles touching her lips. "Right. Perhaps he can help us with one or two of them then."

"I wouldn't bet on it," the man said grumpily as Julie left, sitting himself down across from Follows-Chalk. He smiled friendlily at the youth, "It's alright, I won't bite." He said, "My name's Arcade Gannon, I'm a researcher with the Followers here. Not strictly a doctor, but I've learned a few things in my time and wrapping a shot wound is one of them."

"Who was the person you were speaking of?" Follows-Chalk asked, "The one who Julie thought might help?"

"_Oh_." Arcade's voice remained light, but there was an irritable tone to it, "He drops in every month or so, come to remind us our end is nigh. Or so I like to see his visits as."

"Does he not have a name?" Follows-Chalk asked.

Arcade shrugged, "I don't suppose he needs one now. To the Mojave, he is known as the Courier."


	5. Chapter Five

_ 18 Here is wisdom. Let hi that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six (666)_ **[Book of Revelation]**

* * *

Follows-Chalk's eyes grew round with excitement. Could it be his Courier? The one who had been to Zion and was now back home, in the Mojave? Could it be the very same? No, it wouldn't be. _His_ Courier had spoken of returning to his Legion and Caesar; there would be no reason for him to show up in the Old Mormon Fort.

He paused, noticing the surly expression on Arcade's face. "You do not like this Courier," he said. "Why is this? Julie Farkas was happy that he had arrived."

"You notice a lot, don't you?" Arcade's face cracked into a smile as he wound a roll of bandages out of the first-aid box. Follows-Chalk noticed they were actual bandages, not the strips of cloth he'd so often used on his own wounds in Zion.

_Civilised_.

"I notice only what the world shows me," he replied, "I met a Courier once, he was a very good person. He brought peace to my home. Why do you not like this Courier?"

Arcade cut through the bandage, severing it off after just over a metre. He frowned as he did so, pressing his lips together. "First, it's not that I don't like him," he said, "I mean, I don't, but that's not the main issue here. The issue is what he stands for, what he stands by." he pulled a stimpak out of the first aid kit and injected it into the wound, "The Courier is a man of science," he said slowly, thinking the words through as he spoke them, "Like me. We are the same man, he and I, but he chose the Legion. He _chose_ it. He wasn't inducted, as a slave, a tribal, a power-thirsty rapist. He thought about it," he said, "Then he chose. He could have picked anyone."

He began to wrap the papery bandages about the boy's palm. Follows-Chalk watched the face of the man opposite him as the blood ate into the material.

"He could have chosen Mr. House," Arcade said quickly, "He could have chosen the New California Republic. He could have chosen anyone he liked and he chose a nation of slavers, led by a ruthless Machiavellian dictator. _Caesar_." His hands were balling into fists, "He chose _him_, he chose the future of the Mojave to be one of oppression," he punctuated his words by tightening the bandage, "Of domination, of cruelty and of persecution. That is what he chose for us."

The light glinted on Arcade's glasses, "Do you want to know what I hope for, when I lie in my bed at night, looking at the canvas over me?" he laughed, "It's not a free New Vegas or peace descending across continental North America, don't worry."

"What do you hope for?" Follows-Chalk asked, studying the man.

"I hope that one day, in a few years' time, when all of this," he gestured about him, "Belongs to Caesar, I hope that the Courier will walk by the lands he handed to the Legion. And I hope that he will see a woman screaming as her child is taken from her. Or an entire tribal village razed to the ground as through the flames they wouldn't submit, wouldn't fall to the Bull. And I hope, that as he walks down crucifixion avenue, with traitors or _degenerates _lining the pavements and the streets, I hope that he knows and feels guilt. I hope that he sees that all this is him, that he gave the Mojave this crown of subjection and _thorns._"

He frowned at the look on Follows-Chalk's face, seeming to slip out of his bitter reverie, his voice lightening, "Hmm. Well, maybe I don't hope for all that pain and mountains of corpses. Or a biblical shower of blood coming down on Freeside. But I do hope he understands that this was him. And that it could have been so different and so much better," he tied the bandages tight, tucking the knot under. "There. All done. I hope I haven't depressed you too much."

"Oh, no," Follows-Chalk said, "Your words were fine, even if I didn't understand every one."

Arcade smiled at the youth as he stood, "You tribals are always so polite. I prefer your way of speaking than the way we savages of the Mojave do to one another." He left the tent quickly, leaving the canvas flap open and letting the gloom of twilight creep in.

Follows-Chalk stood also, realising he'd pushed the brim of his hat too far back and the tattoos creeping across his forehead were on show.

He lowered the brim quickly, cursing himself internally for his foolishness. But still, the doctor had seemed to be friendly about it – perhaps the people of the Mojave weren't as wary of travellers as Joshua had said. Perhaps, after Joshua's work was done, he could make a home for himself here.

_Joshua! _He had to meet him at twenty-one hours! What was the time now? He leapt from the tent to peer up at the sky and relaxed. Good. It was only seven o'clock or so he guessed, and he still had time to gather stimpaks for whatever Joshua needed them for. And perhaps a little more news also, although Arcade had given him a lot. _The Courier. _Joshua should know about the hell-demon Courier who was ravaging the Mojave. He would have to tell him right away.

* * *

Isaac could feel eyes burning into the back of his neck and turned to see a man, his body wholly consumed by bandages apart from a slit from which he could gaze out of. He wore a thin black flak jacket with the words SWAT stamped at either shoulder and his eyes were steady and apathetic, not seeming to blink often enough. The Gun Runner was familiar with the style of customer, and his heart sank a little. This man was a serious buyer.

Isaac looked up from the work bench, pressing a bubble of chewing gum between his lips. It popped with a snap. "Buy all merchandise through the robot," he said, "Don't look at me."

"I look to you because I do not think the robot will have what I need for my request." He said, "I wish to purchase a huge load."

Isaac sighed. He'd guessed right, the man _was _a big buyer. He spat his gum out and lit a cigarette, observing the man through the veil of smoke. He should be happy at the prospect of such a big buy. But he wasn't; he _hated _customers like the bandaged man; hated to think they got up to with so many guns and bombs. He didn't have a heavy conscience: it wasn't something that could be afforded in the weapons business, but he still didn't like it when a customer with the same unbroken gaze as the man before him walked by the store and walked away with enough weapons to raze a city to the ground. It gave him the heebie-jeebies.

He passed the cigarette through his lips and exhaled. "What do you need?"

Graham considered the supply courier in the dying light of the day.

"I require as many explosives as you can give me. Payment is not an issue," he tossed the man a dark burlap sack, wrapped about something which didn't jingle like a bag of caps. Isaac frowned, keeping a gun trained on the man as he tugged the sack opened. A glimmer of gold glistened in the fading light of the Mojave sun.

"Gold?" the man asked, almost exclaiming _where the heck did you get this?_ Instead, he shuddered as he thought how many explosives the man could buy with this. Too many; he had given Isaac enough to fund a nuke trade.

"I do not want a nuclear bomb," Graham intoned, "Or a dirty bomb. I require as many high-powered conventional explosives the Gun Runners can find. There is a list in there of all the things they must be. I will return to collect," he glanced at a pre-war watch he had strapped to his wrist, the battery of which he'd replaced more times than he could remember. "At seven o'clock, in two weeks' time."


	6. Chapter Six

_21 Neither repented they of their murders, nor of their sorceries, nor of their fornication, nor of their thefts. _**[Book of Revelation]**

The streets of Freeside seemed a little busier than usual, the Courier noted as he passed through, his eyes wandering over his surroundings on the way to the New Vegas Strip. Children screamed as they ran past chasing one another with guns too heavy for their small hands and vagrants swore and mumbled, slumped in broken doorways as they were tended to by Dixon, Freeside's primary chem pusher. The female crier for the Atomic Wrangler winked at him as he walked past and he averted his eyes, his gaze falling upon a King who leant in the doorway of the King's School of Impersonation, his face hollowed out by the neon lights. He smiled at the Courier before tossing his cigarette away and heading indoors.

The lower-ranks of the Kings still retained their respect for the Courier who'd done so much for Freeside and the Followers in the past few months but he knew that the King's favour which had originally been given was rapidly being revoked. There had been a time when he'd walked the streets of Freeside and a King would run up and hand him a stimpak with thanks from the King.

That time had since passed.

He flashed his passport into the Strip at the securitron at the gate who moved aside to let him through, clambering over the dead body of a vagrant who'd thought to try and outrun Mr. House's security guards. As though such a thing were possible.

The Courier made his way towards the Gomorrah, the casino owned by the Omerta family and arguably the most seedy on the New Vegas Strip. Each of the major casinos had their own 'feel' – the Tops was a place for the men of the Mojave to kick back and have a good time, the Ultra Luxe was a place for the gamblers who wanted to pretend they were owed the finer things in life, the Lucky-38 was pre-war simple gambling and the Gomorrah was a pantomime of all of the things which could drag a man to perdition. In their own way, the Courier judged them all to be as corrupt as one another but there was a special kind of hatred he had reserved for the patrons and the owners of the Gomorrah.

It was a house of whores, even by the Strip's standards.

Vulpes Inculta was sat at the bar in Brimstone, his pale fingers clasped around a cold tumbler of whiskey; the ice cubes beginning to melt into the amber in the heat of the room. His expression was one of apathetic distaste as he watched a chained prostitute dancing on the table opposite, sweat shining on her body. He looked away.

"Vodka," the Courier said quietly to the serving ghoul who smiled her approval.

"I'll bet you will," she said, her eyes heavily lidded, her lips pouting, "Can I get you anything else?"

The Courier was unsure if her whorish attitude was genuine or just demanded of her by the owners of the casino. Regardless, he shook his head, collapsing down into the seat next to the head of the Frumentarii as the server slid him his alcohol.

"You have news?" Vulpes asked, not turning to face the Courier as he watched the gamblers across the way. His voice was eerily cool despite the heat of the bar and slippery like silk. The Courier had always expected to see the flash of a silver tongue whenever he spoke.

"Yes," the Courier said, swilling the alcohol about the bottom of the glass, "There is work for a resistance in Freeside, formed through an alliance between the Kings, the locals and funded by the Van Graffs. The Followers also have given aid."

"Who leads the movement?" Vulpes asked calmly.

"The King," the Courier tapped his glass on the wood of the table, "Julie Farkas seemed to know a lot about it, so her for the Followers. Jean-Baptiste is giving weapons and there will be underground safe rooms and an escape route through the basement of the King's School of Impersonation."

The Legion man turned his head to look at the Courier, his eyes piercing the young man, the pale blue lit up by the glistening lights of the casino. "I will deal with the Kings and the Van Graffs and see the passage is found. You will deal with the Farkas whore." He raised the glass to his thin lips, "Caesar will not be happy. His feelings towards the Followers are… strange. He is fond of them."

"He will have to deal with their loss," the Courier said, dumping his untouched vodka into the Frumentarius's glass and standing.

Vulpe caught him by the arm as he made to leave, the man's fingers digging into the Courier's lean muscles like a vice. He seemed to consider him for a moment.

"You would have made a fine Frumentarius," he said eventually, "If that is what you had wanted from the Legion."

The Courier jerked his arm free and left the degenerate cesspit without another word.

Arcade spritzed his hands with medical alcohol, hoping to wash the blood and pain from his fingertips after an unfamiliar day of working as a doctor. He'd since decided he preferred to be hidden away in the background, working the stems off banana yucca plants in the hopes of creating new stimpaks instead of actually binding wounds, his hands slippery with crimson blood. Had blood always been so red?

The tribal youth had been a huge help though, undoubtedly. He'd stayed at the Old Mormon Fort for the rest of the day, at Arcade's side and whenever he laid his roughened hands on a victim's chest they seemed to quieten, like a wounded pack Brahmin quivering in the hands of an old Merc. Arcade realised he'd appreciated the boy's help and wondered where the tribal had gotten to.

"Julie," he called away from the young medic she was speaking to, "Have you seen Adam at all?"

"I think he said he had to meet someone," she checked her watch, "At nine, so about half an hour ago. You might still catch him, he's just outside. Tell him thanks for all the help he gave if you see him, would you?"

"Of course," Arcade nodded, heaving the heavy wooden gate open and slipping out into Freeside.

Darkness hadn't yet fallen properly across the town and never would as long as the lights of Vegas fell over the slums and broken buildings. A neon sign hanging across the way which spelled out FREESIDE in dancing colours gave as much light as rows of streetlamps ever would and Arcade glanced about, before noticing the youth sitting on a pile of concrete, his back to the walls of the Old Mormon Fort.

"Adam," he said in surprise, "I- Julie would like to thank you for all the work you did with the Followers today." He paused, "Why are you sitting out here?"

"I am waiting for a friend," Follows-Chalk replied. He seemed tetchy, "He was supposed to be here at twenty-one. He isn't here."

Arcade took a seat behind him in the dust, "Who are you waiting for?"

"A friend," Follows-Chalk said stiffly, "His name is David."

"David," Arcade nodded, "Is he," he gestured, "From your tribe? In Utah?"

Follows-Chalk frowned, "No. He was with us for a while, but he never really was part of the tribe. He was always from the Mojave, really."

"I see," Arcade nodded, even though he didn't, "And you were supposed to meet him outside the Fort?"

"Yeah," Follows-Chalk said, "He has never been late before. But nothing could have happened to stop him. He wouldn't be stopped," his frown deepened, "I don't understand."

"The Mojave's an interesting place," Arcade said, "It's possible he was waylaid, probable even." He took a breath, "You are aware of the problems that Freeside is facing, aren't you? You must've heard it today."

Follows-Chalk nodded, unsure of what Arcade was getting at.

"Well, if your friend doesn't turn up," he said, "The Followers are taking on untrained people and turning them into medics for the war. You could look into that, you know."

Follows-Chalk nodded, "Thank you for your kindness, but I think he will come. He needs me," even as he said the words he knew they weren't true. Joshua didn't need anyone, but Follows-Chalk did. He needed a people, a tribe. He'd thought Joshua could have been his tribe, out here in the heat of the Mojave but as he rested his back against the solidness of the Fort behind him, he realised he could have been wrong. The Followers were a tribe, in their own way, he thought.

"He'll come," he said.

"Then it would be my pleasure to wait with you," Arcade settled down, shifting himself about as he brought a silver hip flask from his coat pocket, "I have actually brought a bottle of Dixon's finest for occasions such as this," he sniffed at the flask and winced, "Nasty stuff. Would you like some?"

"Dixon's finest?" Follows-Chalk took the flask and sniffed it also. "Oh! Alcohol!" his face broke into a smile, "Sometimes I'd find some in boxes over the valley and I would keep it safe at the old ranger post because I knew the others wouldn't go there." He smiled as he stared into the darkness at the opening of the flask, "I was going to drink it all one day and watch the sun set over the valley."

"Well, I'll bet that whatever you were drinking was better than this stuff," Arcade took it from him and touched it to his lips, squinting as the alcohol burned his throat, "Ah! Dixon certainly makes a potent cocktail!"

Follows-Chalk was confused, "If you don't like it, why do you drink it?"

Arcade shrugged, "The end is nigh and I shall die. Carpe nocteum, carpe vinum." He lifted the silver flask to his lips again and shuddered, smacking them together before passing it across to Follows-Chalk, who didn't hesitate this time, raising it to his own mouth as he gazed upwards at the stars over Freeside.


	7. Chapter Seven

_ 21 Neither repented they of their murders, nor of their sorceries, nor of their fornication, nor of their thefts. _**[Book of Revelation]**

* * *

The streets of Freeside seemed a little busier than usual, the Courier noted as he passed through, his eyes wandering over his surroundings on the way to the New Vegas Strip. Children screamed as they ran past chasing one another with guns too heavy for their small hands and vagrants swore and mumbled, slumped in broken doorways as they were tended to by Dixon, Freeside's primary chem pusher. The female crier for the Atomic Wrangler winked at him as he walked past and he averted his eyes, his gaze falling upon a King who leant in the doorway of the King's School of Impersonation, his face hollowed out by the neon lights. He smiled at the Courier before tossing his cigarette away and heading indoors.

The lower-ranks of the Kings still retained their respect for the Courier who'd done so much for Freeside and the Followers in the past few months but he knew that the King's favour which had originally been given was rapidly being revoked. There had been a time when he'd walked the streets of Freeside and a King would run up and hand him a stimpak with thanks from the King.

That time had since passed.

He flashed his passport into the Strip at the securitron at the gate who moved aside to let him through, clambering over the dead body of a vagrant who'd thought to try and outrun Mr. House's security guards. As though such a thing were possible.

The Courier made his way towards the Gomorrah, the casino owned by the Omerta family and arguably the most seedy on the New Vegas Strip. Each of the major casinos had their own 'feel' – the Tops was a place for the men of the Mojave to kick back and have a good time, the Ultra Luxe was a place for the gamblers who wanted to pretend they were owed the finer things in life, the Lucky-38 was pre-war simple gambling and the Gomorrah was a pantomime of all of the things which could drag a man to perdition. In their own way, the Courier judged them all to be as corrupt as one another but there was a special kind of hatred he had reserved for the patrons and the owners of the Gomorrah.

It was a house of whores, even by the Strip's standards.

Vulpes Inculta was sat at the bar in Brimstone, his pale fingers clasped around a cold tumbler of whiskey; the ice cubes beginning to melt into the amber in the heat of the room. His expression was one of apathetic distaste as he watched a chained prostitute dancing on the table opposite, sweat shining on her body. He looked away.

"Vodka," the Courier said quietly to the serving ghoul who smiled her approval.

"I'll bet you will," she said, her eyes heavily lidded, her lips pouting, "Can I get you anything else?"

The Courier was unsure if her whorish attitude was genuine or just demanded of her by the owners of the casino. Regardless, he shook his head, collapsing down into the seat next to the head of the Frumentarii as the server slid him his alcohol.

"You have news?" Vulpes asked, not turning to face the Courier as he watched the gamblers across the way. His voice was eerily cool despite the heat of the bar and slippery like silk. The Courier had always expected to see the flash of a silver tongue whenever he spoke.

"Yes," the Courier said, swilling the alcohol about the bottom of the glass, "There is work for a resistance in Freeside, formed through an alliance between the Kings, the locals and funded by the Van Graffs. The Followers also have given aid."

"Who leads the movement?" Vulpes asked calmly.

"The King," the Courier tapped his glass on the wood of the table, "Julie Farkas seemed to know a lot about it, so her for the Followers. Jean-Baptiste is giving weapons and there will be underground safe rooms and an escape route through the basement of the King's School of Impersonation."

The Legion man turned his head to look at the Courier, his eyes piercing the young man, the pale blue lit up by the glistening lights of the casino. "I will deal with the Kings and the Van Graffs and see the passage is found. You will deal with the Farkas whore." He raised the glass to his thin lips, "Caesar will not be happy. His feelings towards the Followers are… strange. He is fond of them."

"He will have to deal with their loss," the Courier said, dumping his untouched vodka into the Frumentarii's glass and standing.

Vulpe caught him by the arm as he made to leave, the man's fingers digging into the Courier's lean muscles like a vice. He seemed to consider him for a moment.

"You would have made a fine Frumentarii," he said eventually, "If that is what you had wanted from the Legion."

The Courier jerked his arm free and left the degenerate cesspit without another word.

* * *

Arcade spritzed his hands with medical alcohol, hoping to wash the blood and pain from his fingertips after an unfamiliar day of working as a doctor. He'd since decided he preferred to be hidden away in the background, working the stems off banana yucca plants in the hopes of creating new stimpaks instead of actually binding wounds, his hands slippery with crimson blood. Had blood always been so red?

The tribal youth had been a huge help though, undoubtedly. He'd stayed at the Old Mormon Fort for the rest of the day, at Arcade's side and whenever he laid his roughened hands on a victim's chest they seemed to quieten, like a wounded pack Brahmin quivering in the hands of an old Merc. Arcade realised he'd appreciated the boy's help and wondered where the tribal had gotten to.

"Julie," he called away from the young medic she was speaking to, "Have you seen Adam at all?"

"I think he said he had to meet someone," she checked her watch, "At nine, so about half an hour ago. You might still catch him, he's just outside. Tell him thanks for all the help he gave if you see him, would you?"

"Of course," Arcade nodded, heaving the heavy wooden gate open and slipping out into Freeside.

Darkness hadn't yet fallen properly across the town and never would as long as the lights of Vegas fell over the slums and broken buildings. A neon sign hanging across the way which spelled out FREESIDE in dancing colours gave as much light as rows of streetlamps ever would and Arcade glanced about, before noticing the youth sitting on a pile of concrete, his back to the walls of the Old Mormon Fort.

"Adam," he said in surprise, "I- Julie would like to thank you for all the work you did with the Followers today." He paused, "Why are you sitting out here?"

"I am waiting for a friend," Follows-Chalk replied. He seemed tetchy, "He was supposed to be here at twenty-one. He isn't here."

Arcade took a seat behind him in the dust, "Who are you waiting for?"

"A friend," Follows-Chalk said stiffly, "His name is David."

"David," Arcade nodded, "Is he," he gestured, "From your tribe? In Utah?"

Follows-Chalk frowned, "No. He was with us for a while, but he never really was part of the tribe. He was always from the Mojave, really."

"I see," Arcade nodded, even though he didn't, "And you were supposed to meet him outside the Fort?"

"Yeah," Follows-Chalk said, "He has never been late before. But nothing could have happened to stop him. He wouldn't be stopped," his frown deepened, "I don't understand."

"The Mojave's an interesting place," Arcade said, "It's possible he was waylaid, probable even." He took a breath, "You are aware of the problems that Freeside is facing, aren't you? You must've heard it today."

Follows-Chalk nodded, unsure of what Arcade was getting at.

"Well, if your friend doesn't turn up," he said, "The Followers are taking on untrained people and turning them into medics for the war. You could look into that, you know."

Follows-Chalk nodded, "Thank you for your kindness, but I think he will come. He needs me," even as he said the words he knew they weren't true. Joshua didn't need anyone, but Follows-Chalk did. He needed a people, a tribe. He'd thought Joshua could have been his tribe, out here in the heat of the Mojave but as he rested his back against the solidness of the Fort behind him, he realised he could have been wrong. The Followers were a tribe, in their own way, he thought.

"He'll come," he said.

"Then it would be my pleasure to wait with you," Arcade settled down, shifting himself about as he brought a silver hip flask from his coat pocket, "I have actually brought a bottle of Dixon's finest for occasions such as this," he sniffed at the flask and winced, "Nasty stuff. Would you like some?"

"Dixon's finest?" Follows-Chalk took the flask and sniffed it also. "Oh! Alcohol!" his face broke into a smile, "Sometimes I'd find some in boxes over the valley and I would keep it safe at the old ranger post because I knew the others wouldn't go there." He smiled as he stared into the darkness at the opening of the flask, "I was going to drink it all one day and watch the sun set over the valley."

"Well, I'll bet that whatever you were drinking was better than this stuff," Arcade took it from him and touched it to his lips, squinting as the alcohol burned his throat, "Ah! Dixon certainly makes a potent cocktail!"

Follows-Chalk was confused, "If you don't like it, why do you drink it?"

Arcade shrugged, "The end is nigh and I shall die. Carpe nocteum, carpe vinum." He lifted the silver flask to his lips again and shuddered, smacking them together before passing it across to Follows-Chalk, who didn't hesitate this time, raising it to his own mouth as he gazed upwards at the stars over Freeside.


	8. Chapter 8

_10 And hast made us unto our God kings and priests: and we shall reign on the earth. _**[Book of Revelation]**

* * *

Graham rose with the sun, the two lights setting out across the Mojave as one before the sluggish residents of New Vegas had even though of beginning to stir. He had rested for the night in an abandoned building in Westside, thinking it foolish not to take the opportunity for sleep when he knew it could be a while before it was given again. As he crossed the baked dirt of the Mojave he wondered how long Follows-Chalk had waited for him the night before. Hours presumably, perhaps the whole night. The boy was bright at least, and it wouldn't take so long for him to understand that Graham was not going to be entering Freeside to pick him up. He would be safe with the Followers of the Apocalypse for a little while at least, even if Freeside was taken Graham was aware of Edward's attachment to his old faction. If any were to escape Nevada without retribution, it would be the Followers.

It wouldn't be possible for Follows-Chalk to accompany him as he completed his final work anyway; Graham mused as he slid the NCR Ranger helmet over his bandages. The world of the Mojave abruptly took on a red tint, the colour of the dirt deepening and the panels of the helmet sharpening the world before him. It would have been an eerie effect if it hadn't been the first time Graham had donned an NCR Ranger's gear.

No, this was not the road for Follows-Chalk; he was not a witness as Graham was. He could not comprehend the work that had to be done to save the Mojave; it would go beyond his understanding of the world. In many ways, Follows-Chalk was still a child.

Graham reached the Banana Yucca plant at the top of the hill and glanced about. It was as good a place as any to set down any gear which would attract attention when he got close to any real NCR Rangers and he folded his trousers and irregular shoes away. Leaving his pre-war SWAT jacket on, he took the bottom half of the NCR armour and the black greatcoat, the thickness of the material apparent as he straightened up and remembered how hot it had been inside the armour the last time he'd worn it.

Graham stared at the Yucca plant and the surrounding areas for a long moment, taking it in so he could trace his way back.

Then he turned his eyes to the East and walked the road to Hoover Dam.

It was a broken road, like all roads in the Mojave. It was a corpse of cracked tarmac and ruined road markings, littered with rubble, dust and stones. It was a road which had been walked by Legion, by NCR and by those not quite of either: the Courier and Joshua Graham. It was a road which Graham had walked when he had been Legion and which the Courier had walked when he had not yet fallen completely to Caesar's cause.

Graham knew when the Courier walked it for the second time, he would walk it as Legion.

A trooper pushed his goggles up his nose as they slid on his sweat, whining to his companion. "Jeee-_zus._ It's hot as hell out here," he swatted an insect which had landed on the back of his neck and shuffled to get a better grip on his service rifle, "Kinda makes you jealous of those Legion son of a bitches, don't it? Least they get a bit'a breeze going on."

"_Lord_, McDonough," his companion rolled his eyes, "Keep it to yourself, would you? I get sick enough of looking at the Dam all day, doesn't mean I want to hear your dreams of ventilation around your crotch."

McDonough threw up his hands, "I'm just sayin', maybe Kimball outta take a leaf out of Caesar's book next time he assigns the NCR a new uniform, you know?"

Another trooper walked up behind the man, snickering, "McDonough, if you want to prat about Hoover Dam in a skirt just so you get a little more air runnin' by above the knees, I'm sure it's fine by Kimball."

"I'm just sayin', Bill," he said, "Damn hot standin' round all day here in the Mojave sun all day. Kind of makes you wish for a nuclear winter."

The troopers' groans and following scuffle was cut short abruptly as a veteran NCR ranger ghosted past, silently disproving their antics but saying nothing as he coasted past towards the crossing of the Dam, his black greatcoat flaring out with the force of his strides. The troopers turned to watch him go, and McDonough muttered;

"I want to a be a ranger."

"You'd have to learn to keep your mouth shut," Bill drawled.

The troopers' voices had begun to fade into the distance as Graham crossed the Dam, pausing to look out at the tonnes of the water which cascaded below. The last time he'd seen such a sight, Hoover Dam had been Legion, _he _had been Legion and the red flag of the bull had swung in the breeze of the Mojave. Now he walked its length without a flag, without an army, with nothing but the word of God as his bearing in the world.

If Graham had been one to tremble, he would have done so in that moment as he looked out over the crashing cascades spilling from the Dam. It was a humbling experience.

"I thank you Lord, my God," he said quietly, his voice made even huskier by the mask; "For giving me this second chance." He breathed in the air which hung over the water and sighed. He could smell the blood of those who had died here, and the blood of those who had yet to do so. He wondered why the NCR troopers, joking and scoffing at one another could not smell it too.

Hoover Dam reeked of death.

* * *

"Lord Caesar, the Courier approaches!" a Praetorian guard announced to the son of Mars' tent.

Caesar leant back in his throne, balancing his chin upon his palm as he waited for the Courier to enter. The _Courier_. He had been right to extend the hand of peace before the NCR had beaten him to it, to win the Courier over with the flattering invitation sent by his Frumentarii and the gift of the man who had killed him. Well, the man who had _tried_ to kill him.

His face twisted unpleasantly. Benny, the Tops' Chairman had been New Vegas trash through and through, how he'd ever gotten his hands on the Courier in the first place was well beyond Caesar. He wondered if the deceased Chairman would have left the man well alone if he'd had known how it all would have ended for him; strung up on a crucifix, a degenerate for all the world to see. Caesar had expected the Courier to take Benny in the arena, machete against machete in a duel which the Courier would have ultimately won. But no, he'd had Benny nailed up with the rest of New Vegas's criminals and had watched him being strung up by the Legion men with an eerily righteous gaze. He'd turned to Caesar then, and said 'I thank you for allowing my will to be done. Now, what would yours be?'

The Courier had done much for his Legion, as much as any of his senior officers and aside from Benny's death which had already been given, he had yet to ask for anything in return. Caesar was aware that he had given up ultimate control of New Vegas and had been informed by Vulpes the Courier had also been offered a similar hand of peace by an NCR envoy on the same day Inculta had reached the man on the Strip.

Caesar picked at the skin at the base of his thumb. The Courier's affiliation with the Legion had been something that had nagged at the back of his mind from day one. The man just simply wasn't _like _the rest of his Legion; he was quiet, unassuming and wouldn't bring himself to speak unless it was in reply to someone. Some of Caesar's men had thought him weak as he shouldered a sniper rifle in and out of the Legion camp, and a Decanus had asked him why he didn't fight with his fists like a man. The Courier had destroyed the outspoken officer in the Arena and Caesar remembered the sight well as Otho had called for men to drag away the broken bloody corpse.

It had been in that moment, as the Courier watched with folded arms and didn't allow himself a smile, that Caesar had realised that before him was a man who stood apart from the rest, the Legion at his back and the Mojave at his feet.

Caesar rubbed the stubble of his jaw, feeling the prickles beneath his rough fingertips. No, who was he kidding; the Courier was just a man, same as any other. Maybe when the Dam had been taken and the war for New Vegas was over he'd reward the Courier by making him in charge of crime and punishment in his new Roman state. Yes, he would enjoy that. Being the Judge for the Mojave wasteland would give the Courier plenty of opportunities to exert his righteousness.

The Courier stood before him now, taking in the others in the room in an instant as he stepped forward. Vulpes Inculta and Lucius stood at either side of their leader, surrounded by his customary flock of Praetorian Guard. The Courier noticed that Aurelius of Phoenix had left his post at Cottonwood Cove to stand at his leader's side.

"Courier," Caesar greeted him with some warmth as he ducked through the entrance. He was as welcome in the tent as any senior officer now. "How goes your work in Freeside?"

"It's done," the Courier said shortly, "Did Inculta give you my report?"

Vulpes' face was impassive as his name was mentioned, and Caesar replied; "He has. But I'd like to hear it in your own words also."

"And what would be the purpose of that." his voice was as unreadable as ever and Vulpes noticed Aurelius scowl at the tone the man adopted towards his leader. He saw the irritation deepen in the Centurion when Caesar humoured the man, a smile splitting his features and a laugh booming from his lips. It was a dangerous game the Courier was playing, Inculta noted, by not telling Caesar what he wanted to hear the entire time. It was not a game for fools.

"You didn't come here as a messenger then," Caesar said, sitting back in his chair and looking somewhat intrigued as to what the Courier had to say, "What brought you to the Fort if it wasn't news?"

"I wish to know," the Courier said shortly, "When do we go to war?"

A heavy silence followed his words, as the leaders of the Legion looked first to him for his intrusion into the Legion's plans and then to Caesar to see his reaction. He looked surprised, more than anything else.

"By war, you mean the battle for Hoover Dam?"

"Yes."

Aurelius of Phoenix smirked, an expression of smugness he struggled to contain at all times bursting free across his face. "If it's the war of the Dam you wish to talk, you should go to see the Legate. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear you question his battle plans."

The Courier stared at Aurelius and Vulpes Inculta was surprised to be irritated by the fact that the Courier obscured so much of his face with his goggles. He'd have liked to know if the man's expression was one of disdain or hatred.

"I would if you would but take me to him," the Courier said testily.

Aurelius' brow ruptured in surprise and his scowl deepened as Caesar motioned, "Aurelius, you should take the Courier to Lanius. Perhaps it is time they meet on another," he shrugged, "He must be one of the last people left in the Mojave who haven't met the man who couldn't sit still in his own grave."

As the Courier turned away to follow Aurelius' exit of the tent, Caesar abruptly motioned the Courier closer and jerked him down to his own level, careful to block Vulpes' view of his lips moving as he muttered; "If Legate Lanius strikes you as ready for war, send a runner to the Fort, but only if his men appear ready to take the Dam. They _must_ be ready," he said, more to himself than to the Courier.

"I'll leave this to your discretion, Courier!" Caesar said as the figure withdrew, "This will be your choice!"

The Courier nodded, thanked him, a small smile upon his lips which Caesar recognised with a small jolt of shock. It was a smile he had seen on one other; upon his friend Joshua Graham, worn when his face was new and smooth and Legion. It had been the smile he'd worn the day he walked out to the Dam, and took it in the name of the Legion.

It had been the smile he'd worn on the day he walked out to the Dam and taken it for Caesar's Legion. It had been the smile worn before Boulder City had crumbled about him, before the Legion had drenched him in oil and doused him in flame, before he'd fallen through the wind and the air and the rock of the Grand Canyon.

It wasn't a smile Caesar had ever understood and it made him uneasy.


	9. Chapter Nine

_12 One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter. _[Book of Revelation]

* * *

Legate Lanius was aware he had inspired as many stories as the Malpais Legate, Joshua Graham, who had led Caesar's armies before him. He'd often wondered if it was simply the way of a Legate, for stories and myths to grow in their footsteps, along with the blood and the corpses dragging in their wake. Soon he'd have more stories clustered about himself than that previous legend Joshua Graham. Soon he'd have the Dam.

"Legate Lanius, the Courier approaches!" the prime legionary who manned the door to the Legate's tent announced.

Behind the metal mask, Lanius narrowed his eyes in an action none could see. _The Courier_. Even he had heard of the man, although man didn't seem like a fair summation of the creature who had walked free of his own grave. It hadn't been a man who'd walked the length of the Mojave from Goodsprings to the New Vegas Strip in order to find the man who'd killed him. Or who had _tried _to kill him.

No, people like the Legate, the Courier and Joshua Graham weren't men. They had gone beyond that when they refused the hand of death.

"The Courier of the Mojave," Lanius' voice intoned from behind the metal of his mask, "I wonder what message he has come forth to bring. Allow him entrance."

The prime legionary stepped aside, holding the flap of the tent open to allow the man on the other side to pass through.

Lanius' eyes tracked the Courier's reaction carefully as he entered the tent. Most men were at least awed at their first sight of Lanius and with appropriate reason: he was a goliath; almost seven feet tall and covered in golden armour which mirrored the flames when he stood in front of fire, making him appear like the Son of Mars he was. His mask unnerved many of the Legion when first encountered as the thick off-gold metal covered his entire face and was built into his helmet, a gift forged by Caesar in the hopes of affirming Lanius' loyalty after his tribe had been taken and he himself woefully scarred.

"You are the Courier who has given such aid to our cause," the Legate greeted him, encouraged that the man didn't show intimidation if he felt it in Lanius' presence. "Why have you come here?"

"Caesar sent me to inspect your camp." The Courier said, folding his arms, "To see if you are ready."

The Courier could imagine the Legate's irritation at his intrusion into his camp and was surprised when the Legate managed to contain his temper. If he had been annoyed, he showed no sign of it in his voice.

"Fine." He said, "If that is what Caesar asks, then you may walk my camp. You will see my men are men of the Bull, with a fist of iron and a fist of steel. They are more than ready to face the Bear, so be sure to give Caesar the message, Courier." He pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the sunlight. "Come, I will show you. You will see we are ready for war."

* * *

The sun had begun to set its last rays across the Mojave Wasteland and Isaac the Gun Runner stretched, looking up from the reloading bench as he set aside a fresh batch of .308 rounds. He cracked his knuckles and lit up a fresh cigarette, wishing it was possible to have more than a basic conversation with the service protectron fenced inside the box that was the Gun Runner's hut. He'd kill for some small talk now, a little something to smooth the quiet discomfort he felt running up his spine. He wasn't nervous or _scared_; fear was something he'd learned to handle pretty well long ago.

He was uneasy.

"Hey, what time do you make it?" Isaac asked the robot in the kiosk.

"The time is seven fifty five. Do you require the day?"

"No, thanks." He muttered, "I know its Thursday."

"That is correct." The robot replied.

Isaac shifted from foot to foot, the crunch of the gravel beneath the heel of his boot sounding unnaturally loud and crisp. He exhaled a plume of smoke and leant back as he noticed a dark figure walking the road past the NCR compound. Isaac recognised the confident gait and passed smoke between his lips again as the bandaged man approached.

"It is eight o'clock," Graham said as he arrived at the hut, "You have what I asked for?"

"Yeah, 'course I do," Isaac tossed his cigarette into the dirt and stomped on it, "It's in a crate around the back. Let me get it for you."

_Don't try any funny business_, he almost added. He had to with some customers, who didn't seem to get that the protectron inside the kiosk wasn't just for show. The bandaged man probably understood that though; he seemed like he was pretty aware of what was going on in the world. It made him Isaac's least favourite kind of customer: if you give an idiot a gun, at least you know it won't be long before he shoots up the first person who makes him mad or gets in the way. If you gave a customer like the bandaged man a gun, he'd wait and hold it and pick the man he was going to kill before he did.

He slid his key card down the side of the metal lock box and the light flicked from red to green as it accepted his authority, the lock flipping with a click. He swung the lid open and hauled the contents out for the inspection of the bandaged man.

"They are as powerful as I requested?" Graham asked, picking out one of the explosives, "They're very small."

Isaac shrugged, "Size doesn't equate power. And yeah, they're damn powerful. Just one'll blow up just about anything you can think of. And you got more than one," he managed to cover his unease well, he thought.

Graham rolled the small explosive in his palm. "And how do I arm it?"

"You can set them up for a chain reaction," Isaac said, "They've got two settings on them, you see? Press the button once, you get a blue light. Then if you press it again you get green, and that's the chain reaction mode. You can set it off with this," he picked out a detonator, "It's got a range of ten miles, but the blast radius is only about half a mile. They're pretty compact explosions," he said, "They're for completely annihilating one spot not flattening cities."

"Hmm," Graham held up the explosive, examining it in the dying sunlight, "They will serve me well enough." He took the bag of explosives from Isaac's outstretched fingers

He tossed a nugget of gold into Isaac's empty hands. "For your trouble."

Isaac watched him walk away, not bothering to inspect the lump of gold as he ordinarily would, the worth of thousands of caps in his hands. A hollow feelings washed over him the kind of which he rarely experienced and his eyes tracked the bandaged man's progress as he walked back in the direction he'd come from.

"That was a successful transaction," the protectron commented.

"I should have- I should have checked what he's doing with those bombs." Isaac muttered, "What if he blows up a city? Or the New Vegas Strip?"

"You told him they were not for flattening cities." The robot replied.

"Well, not normally! With the amount he's got, he could blow up whatever the hell he liked!" he ran his fingers through his hair, nerves jangling, "What do you think he's going to do?"

"I could not estimate that."

Isaac chewed on the nail of his thumb as he watched the figure fade into the distance then disappear. It was times like this he hated everything about the arms trader lifestyle, times like this when you were left to sit and wonder what was to be done with the guns and bombs you had placed in the hands of well-moneyed men. It was times like this when he realised he was selling violence. It wasn't protection, or salvation, or defence that people equipped themselves with when they went to the Gun Runners. It was war.

"_Goddamit!"_

* * *

"Do you see?" Legate Lanius folded his arms with confidence, his back a silhouette against the setting sun. Beneath him, a group of fifty legionaries pumped themselves with push-ups, rising and falling in time with one another. The red flag of the bull moaned as it stirred in the wind.

"My men the finest the Mojave has ever known," Lanius said, "If ordinary men are made from muscle and blood, then mine are of iron and strength. They will sweep the Dam and none, not even the Bear will be able to withstand the Bull's charge. With its horns it will gore the NCR and strike it to ground and then drag it back to its feet, so it may watch its world burn." He drew a breath which could be heard rattling in the metal of the mask. "The Legion will not fail a second time."

The Courier said nothing for a moment, watching the shadows of the men as they pounded the earth, pulling themselves up and up, over and over. He turned to the Legate, the second he had met in his lifetime.

"Fine." He said, "Alert your men."

"Of what." The Legate bit down on the two words.

"That I give the consent of Caesar and you may begin your onslaught." The smile which Caesar had identified as Graham's flickered across the Courier's face again, "You may go to war."


	10. Chapter Ten

_18 And the nations were angry, and thy wrath is come, and the time of the dead, that they should be judged, and that thou shouldest give reward unto thy servants the prophets, and to the saints, and them that fear thy name, small and great; and shouldest destroy them which destroy the earth_. [Book of Revelation]

* * *

"_Hello to all you folks just tuning in, it's Misterrrrr New Vegas here bringing you the latest reports of the battle at Hoover Dam." _The radio presenter's voice had maintained some of its bounce and pep, but it was plain to hear that any cheerfulness was rapidly in decline.

Everyone at the Old Mormon Fort in Freeside was silent as they clustered around Beatrix's old radio, the sound just clear enough that it didn't dissipate into crackling fuzz every other moment and the volume dial on the machine cranked up to as loud as it would go. Beatrix was sat closest to the set, with the other hired gun at her side and a Follower doctor at the other. Slowly, as more people caught wind of the broadcast, more of the Fort had stopped what they were doing to listen to Mr. New Vegas, many of them with hands pressed against their mouths in worry.

A chair had been dragged out for an invalid King to rest and listen to the broadcast and a few patients who were able had asked that their bedrolls were dragged out onto the main area so they could be in range of the radio. Follows-Chalk stood with Arcade Gannon with his back to the gate, resting a hand on the sandbags which formed the little blockade in which the Mercs usually sat.

Mr. New Vegas's voice was serious and faltering, as though he was only just hearing the news as he said it. _"And now the Legion have well and truly entered the Dam and have taken its first wall. There are reports that the Legion have also swarmed from beneath the Dam, entering it from below and leading the first battalion of troops is what appears to be the Courier. Now I don't know if you folks remember, but a while back a Courier got shot in the head in a little ol' town named Goodsprings only to walk right on up again, and now he's leading the advance across the Dam. Who'd have thought it?" _Mr. New Vegas said, _"Kinda makes you wish he'd stayed put in that grave, don't it folks?_" a touch of bitterness crept into his tone and Arcade attempted to exchange looks with Julie Farkas, who ignored him as she fixed her eyes on the radio, clutching a clipboard to her chest.

"_And now- yes, I'm being told that the Legion __**have **__entered the visitor centre at Hoover Dam, that is a confirmed report and that movement is being led by the Courier. Outside, Caesar's men led by the Legate himself are following, swarming along the first wall. We aren't getting any news of what's happening inside the building, but the Legate's men have cleared the way through now and hordes of Legion are following through. The NCR have organised a defence now, led by a group of Veteran Rangers," _Mr. New Vegas's voice perked up a little from its serious tone, _"My, don't you bet they look fancy as hell in their black armour. No sir, one thing I wouldn't want to be on the end of is an NCR Ranger's gun, that's for sure. Still, good to see the boys in black pushing on back."_

There was a pause for a few minutes as Mr. New Vegas asked listeners to 'bear with him' a moment as he awaited more news, and Beatrix's old radio abruptly descended into static to moans of disbelief.

"You pick your moments, don't you?" she muttered, banging it with her fist.

"I'm not sure that's the best-" Arcade began but was cut off abruptly as the static grew increasingly loud, then Mr. New Vegas's voice could just be heard underneath it. Beatrix twiddled a dial and it snapped back into clarity.

"…_this is a confirmed report. The NCR ranger defence has fallen on the outer wall," _Mr. New Vegas announced, straining to make his voice as clear as he could, _"I'll repeat that for any listeners who may have skipped a beat there. The NCR rangers on the outer wall have fallen. The Legate has cut through and his men are currently clearing the wall of any surviving troopers. I've got to say ladies and gentlemen, things do look kind of grim for the NCR at Hoover Dam._" He paused, _"Let's hope things have gone rather smoother on the inside. I'll keep you posted."_

There was silence in the Old Mormon Fort as they awaited the next bulletin, the only movement being the bandaging of a wounded leg or the flinch of an invalid as anaesthetic took hold. The people about the radio tried not to move, tried not to breathe as they waited for their presenter to speak again. He hadn't even bothered to put a song on and static hung heavily over the radio air.

"_Ladies and gentleman of New Vegas,"_ Mr. New Vegas spoke up at last. _"I'm afraid, as of two minutes ago; General Lee Oliver of the NCR was proclaimed to be dead. This has just been confirmed as his body has been hung from the walls of Hoover Dam_," his voice cut away into static for the briefest of moments then slipped back, "_The Courier has taken claim for this act and on his head he now wears the deceased General's cap. Ladies and gentlemen…" _his voice trailed away and this time it wasn't the fault of the radio, _"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid Hoover Dam has fallen to the Legion." _The radio crackled came again as he paused, _"And this time I don't think she'll be getting back up."_

Julie Farkas's eyes were brimming with tears as her fingers dug into the arm of the mercenary sitting next to her. He didn't pay any attention to this though, his eyes curiously unfocused as he stared at the radio, the voice of Mr. New Vegas washing over them all.

"_Ladies and gentleman of the Mojave," _he repeated the phrase, _"My beautiful, wonderful audience. Thank you for listening. I don't think I've ever said it like that, so I'll say it again. Thank you for listening to me. Thank you. And for the good folk listening out there in New Vegas..." _the static cut in again and Beatrix was quick to hit it, her fist darting out like a cat's paw and jabbing Mr. New Vegas back into focus. "…_Good luck to you. I've been Mr. New Vegas and you've been beautiful. Good night."_

Julie Farkas's tears remained in her eyes, glistening like dew on new leaves. Her fingers were quaking slightly as she released the mercenary whose arm she'd had hold of with an apology, feeling as though she was in a trance as the Followers slowly moved away, moving back to their daily duties to fix the screaming, the wounded and the dying.

Her hands shook as she lifted her water canister to her lips, allowing the purified water to slip past, hoping to dislodge the warm lump in her throat. She could hear Arcade talking, but it wasn't to her, it was to the new medic he was training, Adam. Perhaps she should say something. Perhaps she should get up, and help someone; perhaps she should do something other than sit here, allowing her thoughts to wash over her.

She drank some more water, trying to wash away the thoughts and the bad taste in her mouth. The NCR, the two-headed bear- _fallen_. She hadn't agreed with everything they'd stood for but how could the Bear fall? How strong was the Legion now that they could push it over?

"Julie!" Arcade exclaimed as the Followers' doctor collapsed, slumping forward in her chair. He rushed to her side, pulling back her head as her eyes struggled to focus on his face, dancing over his features. Her breathing came quickly.

"Arcade-what?" she said, "What's-what-"

Follows-Chalk sniffed at the water canister from which she'd been drinking from, "There is poison in this water. Much poison."

"Julie, Julie look at me," Arcade said, trying to keep her head up, "You're going to be alright, just keep your eyes on me. I'm going to put you into the recovery position, ok? Adam, get Julie some water, over there-"

Arcade noticed her breaths were shorter now and attempted to ignore that fact as he took her pulse. "Julie, come on, tell me your symptoms."

"Arcade. I can feel-my symptoms. They're-not good." She seemed to struggle with the words and frowned as she tried to formulate them her sentences, every word on an outward breath. "Arcade, I'm- so sorry." Her grey eyes struggled to focus on his and he could feel her trembling beneath his hand. "I'm sorry to-leave you here."


	11. Chapter Eleven

_4 And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. _[Book of Revelation]

* * *

Joshua Graham had watched the attack on Hoover Dam from a look-out point he'd found himself, half a mile away. He'd sat atop the hill for days now, first watching the NCR being cleared out and seeing the river run red with their blood, and then seeing the new red, the crimson red of the Legion beginning to flock the Dam. He saw the shape of the Bull, hanging from the Dam over the body of the NCR General Oliver, who had been nailed to the walls of the Dam by Caesar's men, his lifeless body slumping forward, undignified and pasty. He'd been joined soon enough by captured NCR Rangers, who hadn't so much as shouted in pain as they were nailed to walls of the Dam, their eyes facing west so they could watch the death of their democratic world.

Joshua watched another contingent of prime legionary soldiers running the road to Hoover Dam, their feet walking the way which had been cleared for them through blood. It hadn't been like this when Graham had taken the Dam, he hadn't remembered so much blood and reeking despair. He did not mourn the death of the degenerate, but nor did he feel as though such brutalism was warranted. They were only men after all, and nearly all men were weak.

_The Legate is a beast_, he thought to himself as he squinted at the goings-on at the Dam through binoculars, _and he must be slain by the hand of God._

He raised a canteen of water to his lips, sucking it between his teeth to make a whistling noise as he raised the binoculars to his eyes again, affixed on the road. More men ran up, another fresh group; recruits by the look of them. He supposed that they were perhaps using the Dam as a point to regroup before pressing forward with their onslaught upon New Vegas: an onslaught that was surely quickly coming. He watched them running alongside the river and hummed:

"Oh, sinners, let's go down, down to the river to pray."

The Courier had since left the Dam, walking back the way he'd come with a group of legionaries at his back. Not that he'd need them; who on the road would dare to stand against the infamous Courier of the Mojave now? He was walking the road to New Vegas Graham expected and assumed it was he who'd be leading the attack on New Vegas through Freeside. He'd prayed for Follows-Chalk the previous night and the Lord had promised him that he would be kept safe, so he was assured as he glanced down the road, waiting for the sign of only one. The one he was waiting for.

"_The Lord Caesar approaches!" _Graham read the lips of a legionary manned at the entrance to Hoover Dam and smiled to himself; letting the binoculars hang free about his neck. He ran his hand over his book of scripture, readying himself and calming the quickening beat of his heart.

"My Lord, I am ready," he said, "I will let your Will be done."

He crossed himself with water taken from the reservoir Dam and began to walk down the sloping path, leading down to the wall of Hoover Dam.

* * *

"_Medic_!" a voice screamed over the din that was Freeside, "_I need a fucking medic over here!"_

"I am coming!" Follows-Chalk shouted, ducking down over a rattle of return fire from a King's member. He ran across to the screaming man, keeping his head down and clutching a first-aid kit in one hand, his gun in the other.

The battle for Freeside had begun twenty-four hours before, at noon on the previous day. It seemed that the Legion men had been aware of the various resistance efforts planned and the Freesiders had found their tunnels and routes blocked, their safe rooms quickly cut off by Legion troops. Some of the locals had managed to make it out regardless, and a group of them were hiding up at the Wrangler, the current street which was being held down ferociously by a combination of the Kings and the Van Graff's staff. The white coats of the Followers of the Apocalypse and their medics with cream coloured arm bands and the Followers' crest darted from screaming body to screaming body, the corpses threatening to pile on top of one another as the Legion hacked and tore at their defence.

Follows-Chalk had never known war like it.

"Put your hand on that," he said, pressing down on the man's crippled leg and pulling out a roll of bandages. He reached to inject a stimpak, but found there were none left and instead quickly bound the shot wound tightly shut, ignoring the man's screams. He just needed to stop the blood loss.

"Thanks," the King grunted, "I'll cover you, g'on now."

"_Take cover!" _he heard a voice scream further down the street and he abruptly hit the deck as a frag mine blew a hole in the road next him, the blast scorching part of his face and bringing tears to his eyes. A shriek of pain mingled with a groan, and the cries for a medic started up as the after-effects were felt, the Legion pressing home the advantage at stunning some of the defence.

Follows-Chalk struggled to pull himself to his feet, lights popping in front of his eyes, his ears ringing. A legionary ran past and he shot at the man's legs, crippling the man who fell to the floor. The King shot him in the head as he fell and the legionary's grey matter spattered back onto Freeside's concrete.

"_Fucking medic!" _a voice groaned, _"Doctor, I need a doctor!"_

"I'm coming!" Follows-Chalk shouted, pulling himself from the tarmac and finding himself being power-fisted into the dirt by a legionary, only to have the man fall back to the floor with him, as a pile of grey ash. Jean-Baptiste Cutting ran past, taking cover behind a barricade of a burned out car and dragging Follows-Chalk with him.

Follows-Chalk hissed as his elbows were grazed up by the gravel and shattered glass and he crawled along the ground as Jean-Baptiste covered him, making his way to an injured local with a laser pistol. He bound his wound quickly and apologised for his lack of stimpaks before moving to the next twitching body who was also being aided by Arcade Gannon, Jean-Baptiste covering his moves and holding back the torrent of Legion.

"No," Arcade said shortly as the tribal arrived, "Gone."

Follows-Chalk spared a moment to glance over the local's pale face, which was streaked with grime and tears in death. He was a boy, one of the children who Follows-Chalk had seen chasing giant rats through the streets days before.

Abruptly, Arcade's face grew slack as he looked up from the child's corpse, his eyes fixed on the Legion ranks. It took Follows-Chalk but a moment to see what the cause of this was.

The Courier stepped forward, his sniper rifle cradled in his hands as he dispatched a pair of Kings and a local within a bare moment of one another, before reloading and taking out a Followers' medic, allowing a torrent of Legion to pass through. A frag mine was hurled overhead by a King and Legion and Freesider alike hit the floor to hide from the blast which had failed to knock the Courier out.

"No, no, _Arcade, no!"_ Follows-Chalk shouted as he watched the doctor scramble to his feet, not hearing his own words over the ringing in his ears, "_What are you doing? _No!"

The doctor dropped his first-aid kit and was already pulling his gun from his belt as Follows-Chalk attempted to drag himself to his feet, still woozy from the concussive blast and staggering to the side, clinging to the wall. He watched with dismay as Arcade ran across the battlefield, rolling behind a burned out car just inches from the Legion's frontline up the street.

"_Arcade, no-" _his voice died in his throat as Arcade stepped out from behind the car, his finger on the trigger of his the .44 magnum he'd been given by a King. He aimed it at the Courier's chest and the Courier snapped his finger shut, blowing a hole in the doctor which knocked him backwards; an explosion of red spilling over the white of his doctor's coat. His eyebrows flipped up surprise then down in annoyance that the Courier had bested him and he groaned, actually attempting to pull himself to his feet once more.

"Arcade Gannon," Follows-Chalk's voice came out as a cracked whisper as he ran across the street, not bothering to duck down and yet somehow not falling prey to the cracks of gunfire and minor explosives around him. He hit the floor behind the car hard, throwing himself forwards onto his stomach and crawling over to his friend's side.

"Arcade," he repeated, his fingers trembling as he clutched his friend's hand. He could see, he was dying before his eyes and still the researcher seemed surprised, feeling his chest as though unsure it was real.

There were no last words for the man of many as he died. In death, Arcade found that he had nothing to say; nothing at all.


	12. Chapter Twelve

_8 And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. _[Book of Revelation]

* * *

Caesar raised his eyes to the west as Hoover Dam came into view. Legate Lanius stood at the edge of the Dam, his arms folded as he looked out to the sun which had just begun to set. _Hoover Dam. _It was his, at last, the last leg of the NCR had been taken from the faction, leaving them feeble and leaning in New Vegas. _New Vegas_. It was so weak without the Hoover Dam, so ripe for the Legion to pick off. It had flashed its hideous neon signs, a testament to greed and dissolution, up into the night sky every evening, taunting Caesar from afar.

But no longer, his Courier was taking the streets of Freeside as he walked the road to the Dam and soon, New Vegas would be his. His Rome, he had it at last.

So why didn't he feel more pleased about it?

"True to Caesar," Prime Legionaries guarding the edge of the Dam muttered as he passed by. Just a few days before, idle troopers had stood where they did now.

"Ave. Mars has smiled upon us with this victory," the Legate's voice carried easily over the few metres between them.

"Ave, Lanius. You have cleared the dissolute from the Dam?"

"There is not a trace that the degenerates ever held such a place," Lanius said, uncrossing his arms, "The Courier is an extraordinary man. Where have you sent him? I would have congratulated him on his competence."

The compliment surprised Caesar, who had never heard the Legate pass praise on another of his Legion before. He brought himself to nod as he stepped down, his first step on the concrete of _his _Dam.

"He is in Freeside," Caesar replied, wincing as the light hit his eyes, "But don't you worry, he'll be rewarded for this," he inhaled smelling the clean air, trying to raise his spirits a little more, to prove it was all real. He had won. He, himself, no other, he had brought the Legion to the Mojave and Hoover Dam was his. It had all been him.

Caesar looked out over the Dam and his new empire. Yes. He would be satisfied, when it had all sunk in.

"Legate, a figure at the hilltop!" a legionary at Lanius' side muttered. Caesar raised his eyes to see where the man had indicated and was immediately blinded by sunlight. He could just make out the dark shape of a man at the top of the mount, and as the sun began to drop, he saw something glint in his hand. Something bright.

"What the fuck is that?" he exclaimed, snatching the binoculars off an explorer at his side. He squinted through the glass and saw the man raise his hand, the bright object catching and glinting in the sun. He flicked a dial on the side and saw the man's face.

"No," he said softly, dropping the binoculars.

Joshua Graham raised the detonator and looked, and before him he saw the Beast and his old friend, Edward, the man who had thought to cast him into darkness but had instead brought him light. About them there was a wash of blood, both by the crimson of the Legion flag and true, reddest of blood, gore, signs of the war which had taken place. It was hideous and yet Joshua could not bring himself to hate the man who had brought it about. He could not hate Edward.

Graham raised his eyes and arms above him, "Lord. I am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am alive evermore, Amen, and have the keys of hell and of death." His fingers hovered over the switch for the detonator; "Your Will is mine and it shall be done, on your Earth."

He flicked the switch.

* * *

Follows-Chalk threw his arms about the body of his lifeless friend, true tears, the first of his own in Mojave, raining down over Arcade's cold face.

"_Arcade,"_ he whimpered, shaking the man's shoulders, lifting his head, "No, Arcade, don't be gone, be here, Arcade-" his face crumpled, the scarf slipping from where it had covered his tattoos. "Please-"

"_Get down!" _a King shouted out, and a frag grenade exploded to his right, sending his ears ringing once more as he covered his head and Arcade's body as best he could. A King had been knocked off his feet and coughed, blood trickling from his lips. Follows-Chalk's expression hardened and he snatched himself off the floor, rolling out from behind the burned out car.

The Courier lined up a shot, taking the King's member who'd been choking on his own blood following the blast and reloaded his sniper, snapping in a fresh cartridge to train his sights on Jean-Baptiste, who was preoccupied with shooting at the head of a Legion recruit who'd made his way over the Freeside line. The red sights lined up and the Courier closed one eye, his finger on the trigger. He never missed a shot.

Follows-Chalk vaulted over the Legion line and punched the Courier in the face, knocking him off his feet.

"Follows-" the Courier began, but was cut off as the tribal sunk another punch into his face, breaking his nose. Blood spurted over his lips and the Courier roared with rage, breaking free of Follows-Chalk's grip to shake him off, throwing him to the floor and kicking his stomach. He drew out his gun and shot him in the leg to keep him down, before drawing out his sniper rifle. He aimed it at Follows-Chalk's head.

"I told you not to come to the Mojave," he said shortly and squeezed the trigger.

The Courier shouted out as suddenly he was thrown backwards, a silver bullet glinting in the midst of his body armour. Pacer smiled over the line as the bullet found its target and was immediately cut down in his moment of triumph by a Legion recruit who'd seized the distraction.

The sniper rifle had been thrown out of the Courier's grip as he'd been knocked to the floor and Follows-Chalk groaned as he staggered to his feet, pulling himself along the ground as his fingers desperately searched for it. He could tell the Courier was doing the same and he strained, almost falling forward in his efforts to reach it, his bad leg dragging pitifully behind.

The Courier's fingers found the weapon first, the tribal a second later but with better grip. He tensed and ripped the gun from the Courier's fingers, batting him about the face with it, blood exploding from a gash on his forehead.

"This is not what you want to do," the Courier said. He didn't even plead; he merely stated it, as though he knew it was not in Follows-Chalk's heart.

"I gave you my trust, Courier," Follows-Chalk said, tears running tracks in the blood that caked his face.

"And I trust you, Follows," the Courier said, "You won't kill me."

Follows-Chalk looked at the Courier who had been his friend through Zion, who'd helped conquer the White-Legs and had brought peace to his valley and now instead, lay before him, a bullet in his side and blood tricking down his face. The Courier was just a man, for all he'd done and all he'd killed; he was just a man.

"You know I am not superstitious, Courier," Follows-Chalk said, "But you will go straight to Hell."

His finger snapped shut on the trigger, just as a loud boom echoed in the distance.

* * *

Caesar's world abruptly fell.

The Dam, the Legate, his Legion all ruptured, thrown up into the air as bombs exploded along every seam of Hoover Dam, both inside and outside its concrete walls. His world, the world he'd built with Joshua Graham, the world which he'd led and had led him to this final point, this final victory, collapsed about him.

He could hear Lanius, enraged like the bull of the Legion as he fell backwards, the concrete pathway he stood upon falling about him. Recruits, new and full of merriment also fell, the world beneath them slipping to give way to a tonne of water, water which had been bought by blood and by death of NCR and Legion alike, water which when contained had meant so much Caesar's world and yet now, cascaded away, freed by Graham's action.

Caesar felt the path he was on collapse and he was cast down, falling over and over, head over heels in a mash of concrete, death and pain. He could feel it; he hadn't died yet, but he could feel every bone in his body being cracked and snapped, punched and pulverised by the slabs of Man's ingenuity which had built the Dam. When would he die? He was in agony as he tumbled, but his lips would not open to let out a scream as the air whipped past, stealing his shout of pain from him.

Then came the water. At last, the water came; a flood, a torrent, a wave of calm. It took the Legion from Caesar, carrying the Legion bodies away and washing them downstream. Then it took the pain from Caesar, stealing it away as it bit his broken bones, pushing him under the great flood.

"Joshua," he tried to speak, but the flood took his words as well. It took everything from him and gave him only death, which after all that had been done, was the greatest mercy it could bestow.

Joshua Graham looked up from the hilltop as the light began to fade behind him and lowered his hands at his sides. Water had been thrown up all about him from the explosion and he took a step forward, and knelt at a pool, quickly before the Mojave dirt sucked the moisture up again. He crossed himself with the Dam water, which was now mixed with the blood of the Legion and closed his eyes, allowing the water to trickle across his brow.

"I am done." He said and stepped off the hilltop; to fall through the air once more.

* * *

And so, the Legion and NCR were brought to an end. The man who had felt water, then flame finally felt water again and was given a final baptism and, in his mind, fully accepted in the eyes of the Lord as he lay to rest at the bottom of the Colorado River; having finally been killed. Edward Sallow of the Legion lay beside him, his bones broken and his limbs smashed but even then, not quite sorry in death.

In the end of all things, it proved to be that the Courier who had cheated the Divide, Mr. House's robots, the NCR Rangers and the Brotherhood of Steel of his death was finally dealt his hand by a tribal of Zion. The body of the man was dragged outside of Freeside's walls. Despite telling the Courier he was no longer superstitious, the tribal would not allow the Courier to rest in a grave for fear he would walk out of it and the body was burned. It was a sight few turned out to see.

The Kings had been sorely wounded by the battle for the city and it is said the faction never recovered. Their leader lived on as a cripple and refused to allow the people of Freeside to call him the King, saying the title belonged to the tribal boy, who had saved the city by defeating the Courier making him, truly, the King of Freeside.

The Followers of the Apocalypse left the Mojave following the loss of much of their number, taking the body of Julie Farkas with them to rest in better ground than the dirt of the Mojave. The researcher known as Arcade Gannon was buried in the Old Mormon Fort, which was turned into a graveyard for all those who had died in the struggles against the Legion. Many of the graves there are unmarked.

The tribal who had come to the Mojave seeking civilisation was given a gift of a broken robot by a passer-by in Freeside as thanks for his work. After spending months scouring the city for parts, he eventually gathered enough resources to repair the eye-bot. Following this, the tribal set back out into the Mojave with ED-E at his side, saying that he was leaving on his quest to find civilisation, having not found it in the Mojave. He took with him a stick of chalk, to mark the path he walked in case someone should wish to find a way also.

The chalk markings lead a long, hard road, out of the Mojave and it is unknown where they end.

* * *

**A/N:** _Wow, thanks to anyone who is reading this and so got this far! This was my first ever fic, so i hope you enjoyed it^^ i just felt like there wasn't enough Joshua in the fic world, and i figured if he ever got to the Mojave things would get pretty heavy pretty quickly, hence the whole drama and damnation. anyway, thanks for reading and thanks to anyone who dropped me a review, it really helps:3 thank you!_


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